Gold Star Economy
by Gray Glube
Summary: She comes from a long line of mental illness, high IQs, medical degrees and murder victims. Ghosts don't scare her.
1. Chapter 1

**Author**: grayglube

**Title**: Gold Star Economy

**Summary**: She comes from a long line of mental illness, high IQs, medical degrees and murder victims. Ghosts don't scare her.

**Spoilers/Warning/Triggers**: Language, violence, sexual situations, drug use, slight S1 and S2 fusion,

**A/N**: So I just started thinking this and then actually started writing it because ohyellowbird, remember that amazing AHS author? Yeah, well she's been away for awhile getting mad educated and well…she's educated now and this is for her.

_Ben: I was a troubled kid, a lot like you, Tate._

_Hayden: He said my skin was soft like a baby's._

_Vivien: When you fall in love it's like you go a little crazy. _

Those are lines from season one, or better yet proof as to why Ben Harmon is the son of Bloody Face (or should be) and what season three of AHS should be centered around but probably won't be, thus leading me to have to write this fic. Also in light of some recent east coast events dealing with a school shooting and thus Tate's canon history certain things mentioned may be triggery for people more so right now than they were before, so if that is the case than please don't read. Wait or avoid. I won't be offended. The references are minimal at this point and are likely to stay that way and be mentioned in passing.

* * *

She's always been a curious kid, once she found a paperweight in a box of her dad's old things and a decorative mummy arm that her parents bought on their honeymoon.

After her first rated R movie that showed not only gratuitous bloody violence but nudity she realized that the paperweight was a well preserved severed breast and later when the mummy arm was still hung in her dad's old office above a bust of King Tut and Bast figurine she'd unraveled it and found the modern tattooing underneath.

There were other things too.

A scrapbook and a birth certificate and the long lost paternal half of her family tree.

But it all led to discovery right around the time she'd turned thirteen.

And all family dinners after the one where she asked out loud why neither of them thought to mention to her that her dad was the son of a serial killer just have not lived up to the level of uncomfortable or sitcom kooky since.

She kept mum on the pickled tit and severed arm, but she suspects her dad knows. She wonders sometimes if her mom knows, or if it's just one of those things that pass from one parent to their firstborn, like some horrible disease brought on by genetic happenstance.

There's no tertiary chain of the common serial killer litmus test marking up her childhood like the development progress of infants into toddlers into preadolescents.

She's never wet the bed passed a reasonable age, and the fires she's set were accidental kitchen mishaps dealing with cookies and melted kitchen utensils left on electric stove tops, and she's very good with animals.

But still she's curious.

And she takes after her dad; she's a killer, even if she hasn't had the chance to murder someone yet.

Her mother has a miscarriage. And it's strange, for awhile it's like she's dead too. Until…

Her dad cheats on her mother. Her mother came at him with a knife, she finds out after the fact, and she wonders if maybe her parents are really kind of perfect for each other.

She finds nothing sinister in her mother's old storage stuff, no hidden past, but she gets what her dad must have seen in her when they weren't married yet.

Her mother isn't a victim, and maybe that's the point. She's not so dead inside anymore after that, just rage and fire and a different kind of life.

Her dad buys the Murderhouse.

Violet sees the irony in it.

Plays it cool because her dad's insane and her mom's unstable.

And then…

No more mom and dad and her.

And then…

Tate Langdon.

And it's sort of perfect.

Violet sees the irony in it. Of him. Of her.

Things are fine, good, normal. For awhile. Like always. Segments of her life are broken up into the normal for awhile bits and then something spikes, jerks hard, careens into something else and breaks the fine china normalcy.

Her parents aren't having sex with each other anymore, and her mom got a dog, and her dad dragged them across the country, and she's fighting in the school cafeteria and burning people with cigarettes, and Tate hangs out after his therapy sessions and then they get home invaded by murder junkies and…yeah, ironic.

She knows.

Gets it.

Gets it so much she should get a fucking gold star on her 'understanding the mind of a reformed psychopath turned family man' accomplishment chart.

Because when her dad finds out Tate was in the house and he wasn't and Tate killed people and then hid them where he has no idea where, he snaps.

Reformations do not last long; she learned that in world history.

Violet Harmon gets a gold star.

Tate Langdon shows up for a therapy session and her dad snaps his fucking neck. You can hear it on the audio recording.

Buries him in the backyard, seals the uneven ground with cement and builds a pretty nice gazebo on top of it.

But then things get weird.

The gazebo goes down board by board and her mother just tells her it's because she's pregnant again and her dad is going through some male version of nesting during the first trimester.

Her mother's oblivious.

And then the cement gets pick-axed open under the pretense of her dad wanting to put a pool in to raise property value.

And then there's an empty shallow grave opened up in the backyard and no decomposing body of some missing teenage boy inside.

Really though it's not some plot twist, no police had stopped by asking questions about a runaway patient, and there have been no worried phone calls from Mrs. Langdon.

Tate's been haunting her dad for weeks at this point. A real one man spook show too, from what's she's seen.

And she's known since the week they moved in that's he's been a living dead boy. The neighbor lady, ("Constance, dear. Please."), has a picture of him set up in a prominent spot inside her home.

Violet knows, because while murder has never been her thing, breaking and entering once the old lady next door goes to the supermarket has held a certain sort of sweetness in it, one that's much more potent than jacking out of date iPod nanos from someone's backpack or packs of Marlboros from someone's purse.

So her dad plays doctor and Tate plays boy with violent mass murder fantasies and she recognizes midlife crisis when she sees it.

Tate is her dad's version of vicarious youth living; he must miss the days before medical school and cleaning up his act and a wife and kid(s).

And so her and Tate listen to Nirvana and he pretends to be alive and that he got sent away to some youth camp for bad kids for the month he wasn't a three-times-a-week afternoon fixture for her. It's cool, she gets it. Ghosts can be scary.

But ever since she watched her dad try to hide the evidence of an intentional murder gone unintentional discovery of paranormal afterlife existence she's been having a hard time ignoring her genetic predispositions.

"Sooooo…"

"Yeah?"

"Were you ever going to tell me about it?"

"About what? The super homoerotic camp for delinquent boys? Don't worry, I'm saving myself for marriage. I want to be a virgin on our wedding night. Triple word score."

"No. About what it's like to shoot up your highschool. And get blown away by S.W.A.T."

And none of the future games of Scrabble have ever quite lived up to the high standard of shock and awe that one did.

* * *

**A/N**: and yeah…there's a beginning for you.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author**: grayglube

**Title**: Gold Star Economy

**Summary**: She comes from a long line of mental illness, high IQs, medical degrees and murder victims. Ghosts don't scare her.

**Spoilers/Warning/Triggers**: Language, violence, sexual situations, drug use, slight S1 and S2 fusion,

**A/N**: So I figure that I'm going to do short chapters with this, it's kind of nice to do a fic that's more cathartic put the words on paper and plan as you go vibe. And because someone mentioned it in a review, no I'm not planning on going down the Tate as rubberman route, mostly because I'm thinking in this that ghosts can't impregnate people.

* * *

She keeps waking up in some state of undress that she didn't go to bed in.

The first and only suspect would be the perpetual teenage boy who lives in her basement like a wayward Peter Pan who got lost on his way to Neverland, who grew up enough to reach the state of constant and awkward boners.

But the invisible man thing he does is kind of hot, even if hers are the first boobs he's probably seen in awhile and he's taking what he can get, he still wants to see them.

So she lets him finish unthreading the buttons on her pajama top and pretends to be asleep until the material parts and pools down between her ribcage and arms.

"Hey, Casper." She whisper into the space above her, at the ceiling she's probably looking at through his ectoplasm.

Her answer comes from in front of her bed, astral projection and some ogey bogey bullshit. "Yo. I can see your tits."

She wonders if he can see her smile in the dark when she props up on her elbows and lets her itty bitties press forward in his direction, "Uh-huh." He snickers and raises a shoulder while he nods his head to the side, boyish, practically prince charming, "Sorry."

"Who else would it be?"

She shrugs and sits up, folding her legs and bringing the sheet closer to her chest while he climbs over the railing and panther prowls closer.

"My dad, maybe. He pops up every once in awhile," he tells her once he's settled, lying sideways like a centerfold Playboy, his ribcage pressing down on top of her feet over the sheets.

She plucks at her black damask bedding set, tenting the fitted sheet between her fingertips and letting it snap back, "You're dad?"

"My mom shot him after catching him fucking our maid."

Her eyes probably bug.

"You had a maid?"

She wishes her family had a maid.

"Yeah, we did."

He flops onto his back and she wants to reach out and stroke the line of skin exposed between his jeans and shirt. The conversation hit a lull where she contemplates how to get him to stick around and he probably hopes he gets to see some skin.

She wiggles her toes and pushes up against the ridges of his ribs, "Wanna snuggle?"

"Keep your top off?"

"Sure."

"Okay. Move over."

She's a back relaxer, side sleeper. He can appreciate the sight of her bare chested, if he's disappointed that her ribcage rises higher he doesn't show it.

He's a side snuggler, stomach lounger and his top leg is wrapped around the one of hers closest to him. He's get his cheek on her collar bone and an arm across her torso to reach her other arm and turn the inside towards him.

"You quit cutting yourself."

He's talking right up the subtle, real fucking subtle (like whisper in outerspace subtle [because in space, they say no one can hear you scream] etcetera) curve of her breast.

She touches his hair, it's not soft, it's knotted and smells a little stale, like he's been haunting a locker room, and maybe she'll give him a bath like she does for her mom's replacement baby.

"Yeah. You knew?"

"I watch. Don't want to miss it if you go to deep and bleed out on the floor."

"So you can swoop in a save the day?"

"Not really." Grinning after he's turned his face to look at her.

"Douchebag."

"So why did you stop?" He's picking at the ruddy, thick scab of her freshest line work.

"It just stopped feeling as good as it used to. It's not helping."

"Helping what? Your…urges?" He's picking at the loose edge of her scab and it hurts, he's pushing. He knows, and she knows that he knows she knows it, "Yeah."

"Masturbating might help with your urges."

"Different urge."

"Oh."

He's got her arm against his mouth and he's busy tonguing the blood edging out from around the scab he's pulling more and more of with the edges of his teeth.

"So you just come back if you get killed?"

"Yep, that's how it works. Nothing really sticks, I used to cut and afterwards it was just that first slice that hurt. And then it's back to an open canvas."

"Can I kill you then?"

"No. Shit fucking _hurts_."

"You're no fun."

"Why? What's it worth to you."

The opportunity to see her tits, sleeping in her bed, letting him be all her firsts. But why give. She's always been more of a taker. The mean little girl in the sandbox of life, stealing toys and making kids eat the turds neighborhood cats leave behind.

"I could just do it you know."

"Yeah?"

He twists his head just right, because he certainly didn't do it wrong or not on purpose, and brings the scab with it. There's heat more than pain at the spot but she hisses a little and bites the inside of her mouth.

"Yeah," she answers, sitting up because she figures you shouldn't cuddle and argue at the same time. He just keeps his legs tangled with her and pushes her around with bigger arms and the bulk of burgeoning boy musculature.

And there go her cute little sleep-time shorts and his hand between her legs, stretching the elastic in her underwear so they chafe the underside of her ass.

"And I could just take what you were going to offer anyway, whenever I want. Right now."

"Jeez, really?" She's huffy because he's getting hard and his hand is just as comfortable as hers on her cunt is, and maybe also because he hasn't tried to jam his fingers inside of her to make his point a realistic thing to get worried about.

Girls that you can just fuck don't hold an appeal and he's probably gotten all of that out of his system with one of the zombies that wail the same thing on a loop playback set to eternity.

He scoffs and backs off, "Don't threaten me, Violet. I don't like it."

"I just...sometimes I just want to _hurt_ someone."

"So what do I get?"

"We'll negotiate. But I get what I want first."

"Okay."

"No boy's even ever kissed me before, so you don't have to worry about disappointing me."

"Well, I've been killed before so you'll have to work a little bit harder to impress me."

She slumps back down in the bed and fixes her underwear.

"You're not going to expect me to let you fuck me tomorrow or something dumb like that, are you?"

"Relax virgin, too fast doesn't make things fun." He gives her a thousand watts of boyish charm and manic glee.

"Alright, thanks."

"But no cutting my dick off."

"No trying to put it in my ass."

She'll concede to a finger or two if he'll let her poke his eyes out with her thumbs, however.

They cuddle again and she even lets his run his palm up and down her sternum, every once and awhile thumbing a nipple as he rubs her like a sleeping pet.

She's alone when she wakes up, there's flaky red-brown scab crusting and dried red on the inside of her arm and a bloody smear on the hem of her shirt, she licks her thumb and rubs it off her skin, rolling the taste of pennies around in her mouth for awhile before the alarm clock rings.

* * *

**A/N**: Awesome, oh wow, like totally freak me out, I mean, right on. You guys like this? Cool. Me too. Sorry I've been gone for so long. I thought school and less work would make me have more time to write. WRONG. But the semester is over so yeah. Here's me writing stuff.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author**: grayglube

**Title**: Gold Star Economy

**Summary**: She comes from a long line of mental illness, high IQs, medical degrees and murder victims. Ghosts don't scare her.

**Spoilers/Warning/Triggers**: Language, violence, sexual situations, drug use, slight S1 and S2 fusion, character death

**A/N:** Yeah. This is something kind of new for me, I'm just writing. No plan, just fun. Lots of fun. Humor and horror go hand in hand sometime.

* * *

Shit happens.

But she's a pretty good on-the-spot problem solver.

And right now the solution is simple. She needs to find something big and heavy because her upper body strength is lacking.

Afterwards he looks at her like her solution was a bad one, mostly because of location. But, whatever. She couldn't exactly move the overdosing girl in her basement to some other place outside of said basement to murder her. It's the middle of the afternoon, she doesn't have a driver license yet, and dragging Leah down the street covered in vomit and foaming spit isn't exactly subtle, it's a marquee with blinking red light bulbs spelling "HEY! LOOK! I'M DYING!" Not subtle.

But anyway that's how they get to problem two. They haven't even addressed how problem one occurred. Violet doesn't really enjoy going out of order, she has a strong dislike for media res, it's irritating. Confusing, unnecessarily so.

Problemo numero uno begins like all great teen crises begin, in highschool. And unlike popular media her problem is an overbearing mean teen drug queen. Leah's still sporting gauze around the back of her palm Violet used as an ashtray.

In between casual making out and learning how to slip her tongue against his properly, Tate also clued her in on how to make her daily nuisance disappear, figuratively of course.

At first.

She turned figurative into literal on her own, though.

So she gets Leah to come over with the promise of pharmaceutical drug samples and Leah acts like it's an inconvenience to score primo barbiturates as a little "Don't beat on me" bribe.

And so Violet's first problem gets solved pretty quick with a handful of multicolored pills that look like a packet of Skittles.

When Leah chokes them down with a chaser of Grey Goose her dad keeps in the freezer it's hard to control the urge to spit out a hateful little "Taste the Rainbow. Bitch"

So she keeps that to herself and in ten minutes she's lugging the dead weight of the coke junkie homecoming runner up down the basement stairs.

The heaviest of the drugs have an unfortunately short half-life and there's something fucking creepy in her basement that thinks the warm body is a hot meal offering. It isn't, and it's only when Tate comes appearing out of the shadows like a super villain, or scary rapist, that it goes away.

"You're bleeding."

She is, right in the meat of her bicep. It smarts.

Leah moans, foaming, convulsing, pissing (literally) and moaning some more.

She climbs on top and picks up Leah's flopping head by handfuls of long hair and cracks it against the concrete floor. There's a trickle of blood and a widening halo as Violet breathes heavy from the exertion. It's hard work, in all the movies the head just flattens out right away if you bash it into something hard enough.

Apparently that isn't true.

Tate helps her lift the cinderblock and over the sound of it hitting skull and then the floor she can't even properly appreciate what a head popping sounds like. And it isn't like a balloon. Jawbone and occipital bone are hard so half of the shape remain, it looks like a bad cartoon _SPLAT _when they push it off Leah's face.

And well she's dead.

But now they've got a dead body.

And apparently Leah's ghost.

Tate tells her to go next door for awhile while he handles the homicidal teenage girl ghost who wants to kill her.

Violet wonders how on earth he's going to do that.

But she goes and plays cards with Constance and learns how to make a Long Island ice tea properly. Booze and more booze. Lemon zest. Ice. Nestle Iced tea mix, extra sugar.

Addie asks if they can make cupcakes. She tells Violet she can spit in them if she wants. Constance just sits her down to watch some kid's show with a mouse in a tutu and that distracts her for the rest of the visit.

Two hours with Constance later Tate's at the property line waving her over while she stands inside next door looking out from the kitchen window.

Constance's really young and incredibly good-looking, handyman/dog walker/piece of meat named Travis roars up the driveway on a motorcycle and comes in all cool dude and California drawl so it's not really hard to make an excuse to get away.

She meets Tate on the outside stairs for the basement and tells him to wait a second while rifling through Leah's purse, a knockoff Chanel (go figure, really?) and taking the battery out of her blackberry and burning the rest in the furnace, along with a few credit cards she's sad to see go.

There's little cash in the wallet. She'll burn the rest later, after she sifts out the evidence ashes.

"So, how'd it go?"

"Fantastic. Wanna see?"

* * *

Leah appears pretty soon after and see's her body, she is not pleased. She's a shrieking bitch until Tate offers his expertise of being alive and dead. He tells her he's been stuck in the house for about a week, that little Violet has a habit of killing the people she has come over for drugs.

His little tale of fabricated woe woos the little junkie girl.

He offers her a hit of Dr. Charles' ether and she takes to it like a fish to water, bird to air, other animals to their habitats of choice.

She's out again. Incoherent, pliable. They go off exploring the basement, his suggestion, wind up in Charles' waiting room of horrors.

Is she there for a procedure?

Yes.

Boyfriends are not allowed in the procedure room.

Oh, she's not here for that.

Oh, no?

She's there for the other procedure.

Which other procedure?

The alleviation of high anxiety, paranoia. Her family is very concerned about her violent temper.

Ah, mood stabilization. Has the consent been given?

Oh, yes. Already filed and properly notarized, Doctor Montogomery.

Very, good. Right this way.

Ice pick, eye socket, neural pathways obliterated by steal, mood stabilized, welcome to the Murder House.

He's got Leah set up in her own little corner, bruises forming in big black-purple crescents under each eye, drool seeping out of her slack mouth, gaze glassy, a real night of the living dead zombie.

Dead can always get more dead if you know how to do it.

Exorcism is part of the occult field, lobotomies are part of the medical field and the Harmon house has more than one doctor on staff 24/7.

* * *

He leads the way to her new permanent house guest, explaining along the way.

"Woah."

"Yeah?"

"Awesome."

He grabs her up from behind and rocks her back and forth a bit, pressing his lips against the side of her neck loudly, "You're adorable."

"Shut up," she whines a little and pushes him off because she can do without the cling-wrap impression. She goes over to Leah, brain dead, slack faced, and starts unbuttoning the other girl's shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"I wanna see her tits?"

"Are you gay?"

"I wanna see they're real."

She tugs up the overdone lace number holding them perky perfect and weighs each breast carefully in her hands, she peeks underneath and around the nipple and at the divet where armpit meets boob.

They're real. She fixes Leah's bra but doesn't bother with all the shirt buttons. Tate looks little better in the facial expression department than Leah does, "What?"

"I'm fully erect."

"Adorable."

She brushes off the knees of her tights before moving past him, she doesn't get far. He crowds her up against the basement wall and presses his mouth up by her ear. He's warm and sturdy, so much bigger than she is when he's up so close.

It's kind of hot.

All kinds of turn-ons she didn't know she had: slightly threatening demeanors, scary basements, grandpa sweaters on hot guys, unwashed hair (she's really thinking hard about the whole drowning him in a bathtub idea, with lots of bubbles, shower gel, he'd wake up smelling like all her girly bath and body works shit. He'd be _pissed_), other stuff having to do with him.

"I think we need to renegotiate."

"Why?"

He gives her a psychopathic stare that says everything he isn't long winded enough to say with words.

"Kidding. Where's her body?"

Because she's not renegoitiating unless he's done a super good job in cleaning up. Messy boys don't get gold stars.

"I gave it to Thaddeus."

"Who's that?"

He makes a snarl face and goes for the bloody spot underneath Leah's jacket she put on before she went over to his mother's.

"Oh, the monster movie abortion monster?"

"Yeah, Thaddeus."

"What about the bones?"

"We can bury them in the crawl space."

"Did you burn the clothes?"

"Yeah, I did."

She looks down at her arm, "I need to give myself some stitches, I think. It's still bleeding."

"Afterwards."

There's no negotiation in his tone. It's final.

But he leans away, out of her space. She's a little disappointed (maybe), she was just getting used to sharing body-heat and air with him.

"Yeah," she agrees.

Soon. Real soon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author**: grayglube

**Title**: Gold Star Economy

**Summary**: She comes from a long line of mental illness, high IQs, medical degrees and murder victims. Ghosts don't scare her.

**Spoilers/Warning/Triggers**: Language, violence, sexual situations, drug use, non-con, slight S1 and S2 fusion, character death

**A/N:** So the writing for ahs_exchange ends this Wednesday and then the fics will start being posted so read all the amazing fic and review it and vote in the exchange awards. Also some of you guys are going to hate me for this chapter. Tate in this is dark, bad, no good, and he likes it that way.

* * *

She finds a present from him on her bed. Medical supplies that he got from wherever ghosts go for sterile needles and surgical thread.

It's hard to do with one hand, but she manages. The vodka stings as she swabs the area while hoping to God that ghosts don't have flesh eating bacteria under their nails.

She calls for him and he's there, like a well trained dog. She's always wanted a pet of her own. He helps her wrap gauze over the stitches, they bleed through a little and his hands are cold but she's alright.

Just nervous.

Especially when she stands up to close her bedroom door, lock it, and he's already pressed against her back. He lets her turn around and cages her in between his arms, his hands flat against the door. One hand trails down and traces the lace on her bralet gently.

"So, what do you think you deserve."

He scowls, presses his thumb to the gauze, makes her wince, stains the white threads darker red.

"No. Don't," he leans his forehead against her, "people's mothers do that right after they get a good grade on a spelling test or clean their room."

She takes in a breath between her teeth when his thumb digs in, her stitches are going to pop and she squirms trying to twist her arm away. He doesn't let her.

"Take off your clothes."

"I'm pretty sure you've seen me naked already."

He takes his hand off her arm and holds it up between them to get her to stop talking. She rolls her eyes.

"I wasn't finished."

"Then keep going," she snarks waving her face in front of his.

"I want to have sex with you."

"No."

"No?"

He leans back and stares at her, hard. Confused, not angry. Such a boy.

"You haven't even let me do anything to you yet."

"When is sex negotiable?"

"Not now, one negotiation at a time."

"Fine." He takes his hands off the door and her and takes a step back. She relaxes her bare shoulders against the door.

"But, I did hide a body for you and incapacitate a ghost for an indefinite period of time, a ghost who probably would have done really horrible things to _you_, a halfhearted hand job is not going to do it." He grins and sits down on her bed before flopping back, trying to be nonchalant, get her attention, try to get her to earn his in some semblance of juvenile power play playground game bullshit.

"Okay, so what do you want?" She's already crossed the room to stare down at him from the foot of her bed, hands cinched around the metal frame. "Within reason," she adds when his eyes open and he stares up at her."

"You've never done anything with a boy before?"

"No. But how complicated can it be to suck?"

His mouth open and clacks shut with the sound of teeth clicking together, speechless. Heh. It's kind of endearing. He's cute. "What? That's what you wanted right?"

Really, how hard can blowjobs be?

"Yeah," he looks at her like she's already got his dick in her mouth.

"Sit up and take off your pants."

She steps around the bed and sits on the floor, picking at the bedspread while he shoots up and his fingers twitch against his belt.

There's a feeling she gets, she'd call it disappointment but it's not. Maybe it is. She can't decide. She just feels a little underwhelmed. He is such a boy.

Here she was thinking he'd be a little bit more menacing, more ghostly, more _something. _But he's just a boy. Dead and buried somewhere but still…it _is_ disappointing.

And he sees it on her face when he's unzipping his pants and she's between his legs looking bored.

"Violet."

"Yeah?"

His hands are off his fly and smoothing down his thighs. Now she's curious. He smiles, dimples and charm and up to no good.

"Changed my mind. Stand up."

"What?"

"Up," his palms are warm and dry against her elbows, "Come on," he keeps nudging until she's on her feet and his hands have slipped down to her hips.

"Okay, turn around."

Her eyes turn around in their sockets but she does it, his fingers smooth over her ass in one quick motion, unzipping her skirt until it's falling down around her feet, "What are you doing?" She may shriek a little, surprised _not_ scared.

"Shut up." He sounds more irritated than amused, and then there are fingers inside the band of her leggings yanking them down her thighs, or trying until she turns and slaps at his hands, "Hey!" She's struggling to get them back up but he's got her wrist snared, "Leave it."

"…"

She swallows and relaxes her arm, stops trying to pull it loose and disregards her tangled tights.

"Take 'em off."

It's twisted how much she's enjoying to turn-about. Not so normal boy now. He's staring between her legs, floral print cotton, girlish but not little kid.

"Cute underwear."

"Yeah, thanks. These are my 'fuck me' panties."

He's not looking at her anymore, just her underwear tracing the elastic with his fingertips, barely there heat ghosting over sensitive skin. It's getting her hot. Tingles right down her spine and all. The panties he's staring so hard at starting to get damp, feeling kind of unnecessary.

"Take them off." He makes it sound like a suggestion. She would have done it just for shock value, would have done it just to ease the start of an ache between her thighs but now he's telling her to do it and it sounds like a better idea when he's the one thinking it, wanting it.

She does it and extends her panties to him, "You want to smell them too, creep?"

"Maybe later. Come on." He pats his legs. She can't resist bullshitting with him for a little bit, "Come on what?"

"Get on my lap."

"Are you gonna spank me?"

"No, just sit on my lap."

She straddles his thighs, hers open wide and it's a novel new sensation rubbing up against frayed denim and flannel, still she grumbles because she's supposed to be the one out of their two that is master over the dominion of her perpetually roiling and rumbling teenage girl hormones, "I'm going to sit on your face if you don't get to the point."

"Puh-lease, you'd probably accidentally smother me if I tried to eat you out. Up on your knees."

His face is right at the level of her pitifully girly bralet, she's wearing her cute shit today, "What are you go…_ohhhh_." She's cut off by his fingers skimming between her folds, fingertips warm. She thinks of something inane in the moment 'loose lips sink ships' something like that, she knows it's a phrase about sinking submarines and spilling military secrets (maybe, she's been known to have been wrong sometimes) but it works better as a euphemism for girls bringing boys down by using parts of themselves boys like best.

"You talk waaaay too much."

She thinks even more.

"Fuck."

But her coherency and witty wordplay fails her while he's searching for a place to dock his fingers.

"You sure you like me, Violet? Because you're not that wet."

"Do you not know how a girl's pussy works?"

"Is it like a car? Needs awhile to heat up or else it just blows cold?"

She has her eyes closed but his are open and he isn't blind so he manages to catch the half scowl half frown of concentration she gives him. It's hard to enjoy his hand when his mouth keeps distracting her in a less than ideal way.

And with a easy slow push he's got her penetrated with a finger, longer than her own, different angle, so much more savorable than her worn out old masturbation routine, she breathes hard and he chapped lips kiss her clavicle, scratchy.

"There we go."

She's drowsy on fucklust for a little bit while he pumps in and out of her, gentle, soft, the afternoon stroll of fingering a girl you like.

"Don't…" she reaches down when his hand pulls back far enough to extend another finger, "three's too much." She sounds fussy, she can't really find the motivation to purse her lips so they stay parted and form loose words, breath wafting cinnamon gum and cigarettes and vanilla coffee phantom flavors on his mouth, she's his sugar and spice girl who leaves a glaze of sweet saliva on his tongue.

"Not compared to other parts of my body."

"You have to earn that."

"How?"

"What?" She breathes, not even trying to pay attention.

He not really pumping anymore just lets his fingers get cinched and suffocated by the tight little nook, his free hand cups the sharp angle of her cheek and his thumb flicks her tongue, gathering dew before dropping down to her clit and rolling it in meandering circles of slow spun orgasm.

"Tell me about how I earn it; it's the kind of stuff you think about when you touch yourself, right? Hurting people."

In…

"I've been thinking about the things you've done."

Out…

"Yeah?"

In…

"They have a plaque…in the library. All the names are on it."

Out…

"Wish I could see it."

In…

"Yeah. Me too."

Out…

"What?"

Hers eyelids fold up and the creaking of her mattress catches her attention before his face does, before she can remember what she said, "I said 'me too,' I wish you could see it."

"Why?"

"Doesn't matter you can't leave."

"Halloween."

"What?"

"I can leave on Halloween."

"But…"

"Yeah, it passed already. I know."

"You should have said something."

"I was supposed to be buried under your gazebo. Get back to what you were saying."

"How many kids did you kill in there?"

"Where?"

"Library."

"I killed _six_."

"Counting the librarian?"

"Yeah."

"Not dead. Still there."

"Too bad. So, you think about me fucking you while you do research for your book reports?"

"Yeah. I do."

"How would I earn that?"

"I'll think of something. Oh, fuck. Fuck. Come on."

She cums in an incoherent daze, eyes spacey, thighs hot, cunt throbbing around his knuckles, leaking on his hand, like a soft lit pale and pink porno dream that's revolved, replayed, evolved in his brainspace. It gives him a secondhand high to watch it.

"You okay?"

"Yup." She rises up off his fingers and tilts onto the bed. Getting off is usually something she does before bed, her body is programmed to want to go to sleep afterwards. She can't be bothered to pull the sheets up or put her panties back on.

His hand smoothes over the side of her thigh, her hip, her ass until she nudges it away. He smiling at her, "Good."

She pokes at his leg with her toes, "What about you?"

"I'm alright."

"Yeah?" She doesn't believe him.

"Yeah."

"Okay." She snuggles into her pillows and grins at him.

"Let me know when you plan on making me drink Draino or whatever, you little freak."

"See you later, weirdo."

He picks up her panties off the floor where she dropped them, "Can I borrow these?"

And she knows what he's probably going to do with them (jerk off into them) but there's always the chance he'll do something less likely (wear them) and so…

"You can keep them."

"Thanks."

* * *

"Hey…" He's forgotten her name…"Lee, Lea, Lee-fuck…can't remember."

There's no visible reaction to him being in the room or him talking to her.

It doesn't matter.

He arranges her hair in a ponytail he's seen Violet wear a time or two in the morning when she's getting ready for school.

The dead girl has bigger tits but the waist is the same size and in the dark the hair is almost the same color.

It's not so easy to get her naked and put Violet's underwear on her but it helps get him in the mood, even with her useless flopping limbs getting in the way.

She makes a sound when he puts her on her knees and her hands on the wall, like some precious captive just trying to be as compliant as possible to avoid some worse punishment.

He pulls the crotch of Violet's panties to the side and pretends it's her waist he's got his hands around and her cunt slipping down over him, his exhale shakes and he ruts up inside the dead girl hard enough that she whimpers, pain being the only thing her brain can process anymore.

His fingers slip inside her mouth and push to the back of her throat to hear some sound he can pretend is enjoyment, encouragement.

It's with the flick of a lighter wheel and the hiss of butane that his stomach drops, hard, empty, fear.

"I think it's time we start discussing your entitlement issues, Tate."

It's just the good doctor. He has a collegiate date rape past written all over him, Tate doubt's he's managed to surprise Doctor Harmon with this particular basement surprise.

"I'm projecting wanting to fuck you're daughter onto Miss Lobotomy. Sorry, _pretending_. Not projection. Sorry. Those psych terms are kinda confusing. Really, therapeutic by the way."

But it does pose a problem.

"You're late for your session."

"Well I'll be right up." He waves his head around to articulate his point. Ben just chuckles a little. Unphased, clear cut sociopath to the core to not care about what's going on between the Murder House dead.

Ben Harmon has leverage.

Between Doctor Ben and jamming his fingers too far down Leah's throat, causing what should be a nonexistent gag reflex to react, and the bile vomit running down his arm, his hard-on is shot.

_Fuck_.

* * *

**A/N:** Guys, I'm not sorry.


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